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    As a soccer player, I could run fast, and for a very long time. That was when I was well warmed-up and hydrated. After being cramped in the boot of a car for four hours… that was another matter entirely.
    It was about half a second after this realization, and after a sprint for all of about six feet that Trent caught up, catching hold of my shirt collar and throwing me to the ground. Stunned, I let him drag me by the wrists out of the view of the gas station windows. (Stupid time for the clerk to go to the bathroom).
    “LEGGO!” I shouted once I regained some of my senses. I tried to yank my arms from Trent’s grasp, succeeding to my utmost surprise. I fell sideways and scrambled to my feet.
    We stood facing each other for a couple of minutes, and I could see him reaching for his belt. Gun. I doubted I could get that from him. If I played the frightened high school student card, he might just leave without me.
    “W-what’s going on?” I asked, shaky voice not entirely an act. “Why did you... why a-are you-?” I broke off. “I want to go home, Trent. Mom and Dad are probably worried.” Trent lowered his arm, looking a little more relaxed. If he let down his guard enough, I could run into the station and barricade myself until the police arrived.
    “Phil, I’m not gonna hurt you,” Trent said, holding up his hands. Could have fooled me. “Let’s talk.”
    “Uh huh.” I braced myself for the justifications.
    “I can’t go to… there are some people there who would kill me,” he explained, sounding like he was talking to a three-year-old. I noted that he was moving closer. I stayed stationary, forcing myself to remain calm. “Some things came up… and I was so happy with you guys… but then you knew… and you were going to tell the police…”
    “About that. They already know.”
    The color drained from Trent’s face. He stepped back. I took the opportunity to sprint to the employees only door behind me.
    “Wait! Wait! Wait!” Trent leapt forward and wrapped his arms around my middle, pinning mine to my side as we both toppled forward.
    “HEY! HELMNG !” Trent reached forward, slapping his hand over my mouth and shoving his knee into the space between my shoulder blades. I grimaced in pain, trying to pry his grip away with my fingers. My other arm was going numb with his weight.
    “Shhh,” Trent pleaded as I struggled. No, I would not Shhh. I wasn’t stupid. “I’m not gonna hurt you, Phil.”
    You’re hurting me now!
    He lifted his knee and pulled me to my feet, hand still pressed over my mouth. We walked backwards (well, he walked, I got dragged) until we reached what I assumed was the maroon pick-up he had wanted me to go to earlier. After a couple of seconds of fiddling, he opened the door and bodily lifted me inside. He had only released me for a second before whipping out his pistol and pointing it at me, killing the shout in my throat.
    “Just-just stay put, Phillip,” he commanded. I could see his hands were shaking. He reached down to the doors and flipped something on both before closing them. He kept the gun trained on me through the window as he circled around to the other side. He repeated the ritual as I continued eyeing the gun. He closed the doors, pocketing his gun and heading towards the gas station.
    I knew shouting would just bring Trent back faster, so I quietly reached over and tried the unlocked door… or the conventionally unlocked door. As I pulled fruitlessly, popping the lock up and down, I realized that Trent had set the child lock.
    To be foiled by a simple child lock. What was left of my shattered pride finally sizzled into oblivion.
    Trent returned a few short minutes later, carrying an armload of food and a case of bottled water. He used the tips of his fingers to open the doors, and I shot out. With his arms full, he couldn’t do anything.
    I was wrong.
    He dropped the case of water on my foot, which didn’t hurt, but sent me sprawling. I tried to scramble back up, but Trent had already deposited his stuff outside the truck. He knelt on the small of my back and shoved a hand over my neck. I shouted out again, but he didn’t bother silencing me. I didn’t want to know what that meant for the clerk inside. Would the same happen to me?
    “Work with me, Phillip,” Trent pleaded. I tried to kick him off. He released my neck and grabbed my wrists, forcing them together behind by back.
    OH NO! I struggled harder, quieting to divert my energy to getting free. Trent cursed loudly, several times, before he had secured my hands together and my upper arms to my side with brightly-colored blue rope. He released all but his knee on my back and sat for a minute, panting. In the distance, I once again heard sirens.
    Thank the powers that be, I sighed inwardly. However, I felt Trent cringe.
    “Up,” he said, yanking me to my feet by my shoulder and steering me back into the pick-up. He shoved the food and water into the seat next to me, closed the door, and climbed behind the wheel. He leaned beneath the dashboard with a pocket knife. I heard several electric zaps, and the car roared to life. If Trent hadn’t currently been kidnapping me, I would have asked him to teach me how to do it (y’know, just to have it in my reserve of knowledge).
    After driving in silence for several minutes (I was too busy figuring out the ropes and cursing my bad luck to be any sort of conversationalist) Trent turned on the radio.
    “Wyoming news at six. A Fred Blooms, known petty criminal, was found murdered last night at the Sheep and Stork Pizzeria in Bronsville. The suspect, Trent Clinton—as identified by a witness to the act—is currently on the run. The disappearance of Phillip Peterson, Trent’s fiancé’s brother, leads police to suspect a hostage situation. The suspect’s last known vehicle was a 2003 silver Subaru Impreza with the license plate number 449-”
     Trent turned the radio off at that point. I could see him shaking. He was as nervous as I was.
    Now, you might think me heartless for turning in my own sister’s fiancé. But look at the bigger picture: I’m not about to let my sister marry a murderer with a potentially larger secret rap sheet. My sister will always be more important than any guy she dates, no matter how cool or good at basketball he is.
    As more buildings began to accumulate and Trent slowed to obey the stricter speed limit, my hopes rose. There was a shop window full of TVs, and all of them had our pictures glowing on the screens. The stoplight forced Trent to brake right in front of the store. He didn’t notice the blatant images and the slowly growing crowd around the window. I mashed my forehead against the doorframe…and noted the crank just below.
    Hurrah for old trucks. I shoved my knee under the lever and painstakingly spun it until the window was open enough for me to fit my face. Checking back on Trent, I took a deep breath.

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

    As a soccer player, I could run fast, and for a very long time. That was when I was well warmed-up and hydrated. After being cramped in the boot of a car for four hours… that was another matter entirely.
    It was about half a second after this realization, and after a sprint for all of about six feet that Trent caught up, catching hold of my shirt collar and throwing me to the ground. Stunned, I let him drag me by the wrists out of the view of the gas station windows. (Stupid time for the clerk to go to the bathroom).
    “LEGGO!” I shouted once I regained some of my senses. I tried to yank my arms from Trent’s grasp, succeeding to my utmost surprise. I fell sideways and scrambled to my feet.
    We stood facing each other for a couple of minutes, and I could see him reaching for his belt. Gun. I doubted I could get that from him. If I played the frightened high school student card, he might just leave without me.
    “W-what’s going on?” I asked, shaky voice not entirely an act. “Why did you... why a-are you-?” I broke off. “I want to go home, Trent. Mom and Dad are probably worried.” Trent lowered his arm, looking a little more relaxed. If he let down his guard enough, I could run into the station and barricade myself until the police arrived.
    “Phil, I’m not gonna hurt you,” Trent said, holding up his hands. Could have fooled me. “Let’s talk.”
    “Uh huh.” I braced myself for the justifications.
    “I can’t go to… there are some people there who would kill me,” he explained, sounding like he was talking to a three-year-old. I noted that he was moving closer. I stayed stationary, forcing myself to remain calm. “Some things came up… and I was so happy with you guys… but then you knew… and you were going to tell the police…”
    “About that. They already know.”
    The color drained from Trent’s face. He stepped back. I took the opportunity to sprint to the employees only door behind me.
    “Wait! Wait! Wait!” Trent leapt forward and wrapped his arms around my middle, pinning mine to my side as we both toppled forward.
    “HEY! HELMNG !” Trent reached forward, slapping his hand over my mouth and shoving his knee into the space between my shoulder blades. I grimaced in pain, trying to pry his grip away with my fingers. My other arm was going numb with his weight.
    “Shhh,” Trent pleaded as I struggled. No, I would not Shhh. I wasn’t stupid. “I’m not gonna hurt you, Phil.”
    You’re hurting me now!
    He lifted his knee and pulled me to my feet, hand still pressed over my mouth. We walked backwards (well, he walked, I got dragged) until we reached what I assumed was the maroon pick-up he had wanted me to go to earlier. After a couple of seconds of fiddling, he opened the door and bodily lifted me inside. He had only released me for a second before whipping out his pistol and pointing it at me, killing the shout in my throat.
    “Just-just stay put, Phillip,” he commanded. I could see his hands were shaking. He reached down to the doors and flipped something on both before closing them. He kept the gun trained on me through the window as he circled around to the other side. He repeated the ritual as I continued eyeing the gun. He closed the doors, pocketing his gun and heading towards the gas station.
    I knew shouting would just bring Trent back faster, so I quietly reached over and tried the unlocked door… or the conventionally unlocked door. As I pulled fruitlessly, popping the lock up and down, I realized that Trent had set the child lock.
    To be foiled by a simple child lock. What was left of my shattered pride finally sizzled into oblivion.
    Trent returned a few short minutes later, carrying an armload of food and a case of bottled water. He used the tips of his fingers to open the doors, and I shot out. With his arms full, he couldn’t do anything.
    I was wrong.
    He dropped the case of water on my foot, which didn’t hurt, but sent me sprawling. I tried to scramble back up, but Trent had already deposited his stuff outside the truck. He knelt on the small of my back and shoved a hand over my neck. I shouted out again, but he didn’t bother silencing me. I didn’t want to know what that meant for the clerk inside. Would the same happen to me?
    “Work with me, Phillip,” Trent pleaded. I tried to kick him off. He released my neck and grabbed my wrists, forcing them together behind by back.
    OH NO! I struggled harder, quieting to divert my energy to getting free. Trent cursed loudly, several times, before he had secured my hands together and my upper arms to my side with brightly-colored blue rope. He released all but his knee on my back and sat for a minute, panting. In the distance, I once again heard sirens.
    Thank the powers that be, I sighed inwardly. However, I felt Trent cringe.
    “Up,” he said, yanking me to my feet by my shoulder and steering me back into the pick-up. He shoved the food and water into the seat next to me, closed the door, and climbed behind the wheel. He leaned beneath the dashboard with a pocket knife. I heard several electric zaps, and the car roared to life. If Trent hadn’t currently been kidnapping me, I would have asked him to teach me how to do it (y’know, just to have it in my reserve of knowledge).
    After driving in silence for several minutes (I was too busy figuring out the ropes and cursing my bad luck to be any sort of conversationalist) Trent turned on the radio.
    “Wyoming news at six. A Fred Blooms, known petty criminal, was found murdered last night at the Sheep and Stork Pizzeria in Bronsville. The suspect, Trent Clinton—as identified by a witness to the act—is currently on the run. The disappearance of Phillip Peterson, Trent’s fiancé’s brother, leads police to suspect a hostage situation. The suspect’s last known vehicle was a 2003 silver Subaru Impreza with the license plate number 449-”
     Trent turned the radio off at that point. I could see him shaking. He was as nervous as I was.
    Now, you might think me heartless for turning in my own sister’s fiancé. But look at the bigger picture: I’m not about to let my sister marry a murderer with a potentially larger secret rap sheet. My sister will always be more important than any guy she dates, no matter how cool or good at basketball he is.
    As more buildings began to accumulate and Trent slowed to obey the stricter speed limit, my hopes rose. There was a shop window full of TVs, and all of them had our pictures glowing on the screens. The stoplight forced Trent to brake right in front of the store. He didn’t notice the blatant images and the slowly growing crowd around the window. I mashed my forehead against the doorframe…and noted the crank just below.
    Hurrah for old trucks. I shoved my knee under the lever and painstakingly spun it until the window was open enough for me to fit my face. Checking back on Trent, I took a deep breath.